One hundred years old
and wise
beyond his years
he stands
next to me
looking at a painting
on a wall
in his house
appreciating
the way in which
several rough lines
rendering
the same approximate
geometric shape
achieve orchestration
the dark brown field
circumscribed in black
a big heart
not in shape
but location
of red orange
inside of that
and a heart
within the heart
of one ocean green
with still another
smaller
blue green heart
at sea
afloat
a worthy craft
the spitting image
of the still point
from which
all life emerges
and when I ask
thinking of death
if he is often afraid
he says no
more often
I enjoy being alive.
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